Weekly wrap: Magma, mobsters and whinypants premiers

What a week this has been. A week over which a pall hovered, and yet which remained a testament to the virtues of perseverance and determination.

The most startling revelation of the week, of course, came from Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, known to his friends as "Wazza", who said, "Many women who do not dress modestly ... lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which [consequently] increases earthquakes". His statement, one of the most provocative seismological hypotheses to be floated in recent years, was scoffed at by many who considered it unlikely that female promiscuity had a noticeable effect on the earth's crust. And yet, even as they scoffed, a 5.0-magnitude earthquake struck the town of Kalgoorlie, rocking the brothels to their foundations and sending skimpies tumbling like ninepins. Scoffing much now?

More evidence that Wazza Sedighi was on the right track came from Iceland - whose women aren't exactly known for their sensible shoes, if you catch my drift - where the eruption of the volcano Eyjafjallajökull (Icelandic for "reluctant newsreader") sent a massive ash cloud to hover over Europe, preventing international air travel and stranding thousands far from home. As the days passed, and the airlines saw more and more income slipping away like lava, anger mounted towards the over-cautious European authorities and their stubborn, nannyish insistence on denying free citizens of the world their basic right to crash into mountains.

Fortunately, by the end of the week the ash haze had begun to clear, Europe had come to its senses, and air travel had been made all the more thrilling by the exciting possibility that at any moment an engine intake would become clogged with ash and everyone would die in a horrific screaming fiery heap. Those of us stuck on the ground could only envy them.

No doubt Prime Minister Rudd was one of the envious, trapped as he was this week in Australia, rather than bestriding the world as is his preference, forced to sit for hours at a time attempting to hide his contempt for state premiers as he negotiated agreement on his health care reform package, dubbed the "Please God Make It Stop Plan" by policy boffins and political reporters everywhere.

The sticking point, of course, was Rudd's demand that the states give up 30 per cent of their GST revenue, a demand that rankled especially with Victorian Premier John Brumby. Brumby, a man of high principles and a passionate devotee of states' rights, objected mightily to being asked to surrender an entire third of the money that his state had rightfully earned via its hard-won basic existence, and declared that he would never thus compromise the precious autonomy of the great state of Victoria until Kevin shoved a bunch more cash down his throat.

Happily, Rudd, a prime minister who has never been afraid of collaborative democracy, constructive compromise, or writing cheques till his wrist snaps like a twig, saw the wisdom of this argument, and ponied up the dough, upon which Brumby, having reflected soberly, realised that 30 per cent of GST wasn't all that significant after all and golly, he could hardly even remember why he'd thought it was, it all seemed like some strange dream.

And so Kevin and John and Anna and Mike and David and Kristina lived happily ever after, with the only sourpuss spoiling the feel good vibe being West Australian Premier Colin "Whinypants" Barnett, who said he didn't want to "rain on the parade" as he stood on the balcony, upending his big fat bucket of no all over everyone.

Not that Rudd was that upset by Barnett's recalcitrance - as he pointed out, WA only represents 10 per cent of Australians, and let's be honest, not exactly the most personable or hygienic 10 per cent; and as long as he's got the other 90 per cent, that bunch of ungrateful Liberal-voting yahoos can secede for all he cares. Of course, secession, in conjunction with Queensland's civil war over daylight savings and NSW's mass voluntary euthanasia, may cause problems down the line; but as with all governmental problems, Rudd's motto is: let's cross that bridge when Tony Abbott forces me at gunpoint to recognise its existence. Given the fact that a state government in sight of free money is the political equivalent of a pensioner in sight of a 5-cent poker machine, it seems likely that WA will come around, thereby fixing the health system and allowing the PM to move on to other vital matters, like slowing down the internet and making no apologies for things.

One of the things he was forced to make no apology for was the death of the home insulation scheme, which was finally terminated for good, in favour of the stop people getting killed by home insulation scheme, a humiliating backdown that practically amounted to an admission that their original plan to burn thousands of Australians to death in their homes was misguided. This announcement was gleefully seized upon by the Opposition's George Brandis, who accused the government of policy on the run. Government minister Chris Bowen retorted that such a criticism from the Opposition was like "being lectured on how to behave in public by Britney Spears". This sparked a war of words, with the Opposition pointing out that being subjected to insulting analogies by the government was like taking driving lessons with Halle Berry, and the government hitting back with the claim that having your policy critiqued by the Liberal Party was like being taught how to wear pants by Lady Gaga.

Meanwhile, Tony "Oops I Did It Again" Abbott, in danger of finding himself behind the eightball with Rudd's victory on health, found a way - as always - to outflank his opponent. Using the sort of canny political manoeuvring that could only come from a man whose secretly-implanted brain electrodes require new batteries, Abbott announced that he thought it would be a good idea if all the unemployed people under 30 lost their benefits and were sent to work in the mines. This plan, which goes by the official name "The Heigh-Ho Solution", immediately won broad popular support from conservative commentators and evil overlords alike, and provided Tony Abbott with the perfect bit of misdirection from Rudd's health plan.

But there was plentiful distraction anyway upon the breaking of this week's other big story, the prison killing of Carl Williams, a genuine tragedy, particularly as he had been getting such glowing reviews for his performance in Beneath Hill 60.

The murder immediately set off a storm of debate in the media, as newspapers reserved the front page for days on end for the Williams story, devoting up to ten pages at a time to the mystery of just why the public seemed to be so damned fascinated with the criminal world. Part of the fascination, obviously, comes from Underbelly, which wields huge influence - after the first season of the show, it seemed like everyone was rushing to put on 30 kilos, put on some tracksuit pants and sit in chicken shops. And after the second season with Matthew Newton, schoolteachers reported a massive upsurge in the incidence of impressionable children taking off all their clothes and acting unconvincingly.

I guess in the end, the real lesson to be learnt from the Williams story is that if one lives by the sword, one dies by the sword, or rather, if one lives by the soldering iron, one dies by the dismantled exercise bike.

And it was that exercise bike that truly embodied the week, I think. Because it showed that if you really work at it, you can do anything. It's an inspiring demonstration of the work ethic and resourcefulness of Australians, that a young man with nothing but a crazy dream, two strong hands, and some insecurely constructed fitness equipment, can make his dream come true. No wonder they're calling him "the Jessica Watson of Barwon".

After all, following our dream is what really matters. So go for it. Your dream might be to fly a Boeing 747 blindly across Europe; or to bring about revolutionary and lasting reform of an inefficient health system; or to extort billions of dollars from members of your own party under the guise of political leadership; or to creep up behind people and hit them in the head; but whatever that dream is, if you really believe in yourself, you can achieve it. And that's a lesson we can all live by.

Apparently there was also something this week about rugby league, but I can't write about it because there seem to be tears all over my screen. I'm not crying, mind; there's just some volcanic ash in my eye.